


facta, non verba

by amonitrate



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: Scraggly as a cat left out in the rain, hair in black runnels sticking to his forehead and dripping dirty water into his eyes: Methos, shivering, on Duncan MacLeod's doorstep.





	facta, non verba

**Author's Note:**

> written for pat_t, pretty sure it was for hlh_shortcuts.
> 
> thanks to ithildyn for the super quick beta.

Scraggly as a cat left out in the rain, hair in black runnels sticking to his forehead and dripping dirty water into his eyes: Methos, shivering, on Duncan MacLeod's doorstep.

“Mac,” he said in greeting, as if he'd just dropped by the barge for a nightcap.

MacLeod hesitated, the wood of the door cold in his hand.

“I assure you I haven't brought the plague.” Methos lifted his arms to display the sopping fabric of a once natty coat, clinging in awkward bunches. His hands were white and bare and empty.

“You smell...”

“Yes. Well, it couldn't be helped.” His uninvited guest pushed past Duncan and clomped down the stairs, leaving wet bootprints on the wood.

“Methos-”

Methos made a beeline to the liquor cabinet. Duncan noticed the door still in his hand and shut it with a healthy thunk. By the time he'd turned around again, Methos had poured himself a full tumbler of whiskey. Dirty water ran down the bridge of his nose to mix with the liquor as he gulped it down.

“Where've you been?” MacLeod managed, wrinkling his nose. The barge was already filling with the stench of river water.

" _That's_ your first question? I show up on your doorstep, filthy wet and stealing your booze, and all you want to know is the _where_? Forgot about the other five, eh?"

MacLeod followed the bootprints down into the main room, mulling idly over the status of his mop, and how he was going to force Methos to use it. "Other five what?"

Methos splashed more whiskey into his glass. "Your days as a newspaperman really stuck with you, I see." He counted off on his fingers as he spoke. "Who, what, when, why and how? I really don't see why _where_ is any more important. It's interesting that you latched onto _where_ first, though."

"Interesting?" MacLeod caught himself and broke off. "It's interesting to _me_ that you've managed to avoid answering my question."

A lift of one muddy shoulder. "Fine. I've been in the Seine. Would've thought that was obvious."

"A bit chilly for a swim, isn't it?" 

The corner of Methos' mouth lifted. _So the kid can learn_ , that look seemed to say.

"Okay, I'll bite," MacLeod continued, folding his arms. "When."

"Well, that bit's complicated," Methos countered. "Not to mention vague. When what?"

"This isn't going to turn into an Immortal reenactment of 'Who's on First,' is it?"

For a long moment, he was sure Methos was going to take up that gauntlet, just to prove he could. Instead, the other immortal peeled off his coat and let it drop to the carpet with a particularly nasty sort of sodden thunk. Under the coat he was clad only in a damp pair of jeans and a thin white tee-shirt, soaked through and plastered transparent against his skin. It didn't take much to refrain from the obvious joke the situation deserved, because Methos' coat was bleeding dirty Seine water into MacLeod's very nice antique Persian rug.

Wet wool was heavy, but the coat should've been heavier. MacLeod shook it and shot an inquiring glance at Methos, who shrugged.

"Would the fate of your sword be considered _what_ , or _how_?"

Methos' head tilted back with another swallow of whiskey. "Oh, that's probably _where_ , too, since I think it's currently resting on the bottom of the river."

"You _think_?"

"Well," Methos said airily, "I had it when I jumped in, and it was gone when I crawled out, so that seems the most accurate assumption."

"Christ," MacLeod muttered. He crossed to the kitchenette and dropped Methos' coat into a garbage bag. "It just slipped out of your hand?"

Across the room, Methos' eyes were rolling. "Yeah, that's it, I forgot to hold onto my sword. I'll have to remember that next time."

"Methos--"

"There was a great big boat, okay? Came out of nowhere. It's all a little blurry after that."

MacLeod dried his hands on a towel and leaned against his countertop. "You jumped into the Seine, got hit by a boat, and dropped your sword in the process. I suppose that covers the _where_ , the _what_ and the _how_. So, where does that leave us?"

"You're the muckraker, you tell me."

Methos' hands were still bleached white around the knuckles where he gripped his glass of whiskey, and his lips were a lovely shade of bluish purple. Not to mention the way his shirt was sticking to his chest. MacLeod was pretty sure that the very visible nipples were evidence that Methos was even colder than he was letting on, not a sign he was interested in more than MacLeod's alcohol. It was January, after all.

So he relented. He'd probably regret it. "You smell like you died in a sewer. The whiskey and the Spanish Inquisition will be here when you're a little less... odoriferous. Go on, go use up all my hot water."

Methos hovered a moment by the liquor cabinet as if considering the merits of continuing to stink up MacLeod's living room. Then he downed his drink in one noisy swallow and sauntered off to the back of the barge, leaving MacLeod ruing that he hadn't made that wet tee-shirt joke after all.

 

There was an entire drawer of old sweatshirts and unraveling sweaters that Methos could have chosen to borrow. Instead, when he emerged stark naked and dripping (clean water, this time) from the barge's bath, he rifled through the wardrobe and pulled on a brand-new cashmere turtleneck that MacLeod had yet to wear. MacLeod strangled his first response and was never more glad of the screech of the kettle. He hadn't specified what clothes Methos was to borrow, after all, but Methos usually never bothered to raid the more respectable items.

MacLeod brewed tea and refused to check and see if Methos was stretching out the cashmere. When the tea was ready he poured it into two mugs, then added brandy. Damn, he didn't have any lemon.

"So," Methos said when MacLeod handed him one of the jerry-rigged hot toddies. "Any plans for the New Year?"

"Besides brushing up on my muckraking skills?"

MacLeod set his own mug down on the coffee table and perched on the couch, angled so that he could make a study of the other immortal. With Methos, it usually helped to watch his body language more than his words. Of course, this time Methos' body language was as loose and benign as if he really had just dropped by for a drink and a chat.

So. He was going to have to rely on questioning to pull the truth out about what had happened.

Great.

"MacLeod, you ran a newspaper with a circulation of about forty-five, in a town where less than half that many could read."

"And? Are you impugning my journalistic reputation?"

"Well, I do remember one hard-hitting piece of investigative reporting. Something about how twelve cows vanished under cover of night from the local sheriff's ranch? It was all very dramatic."

Whatever had brought Methos to his door, from his level of nonchalance, either there was nothing to worry about, or it was impending doom. "It was ten cows, and he was the mayor, and that's beside the point. Where'd we leave off?" He missed the lemon. The toddy just wasn't the same without it.

"Some kind of reporter you are, if you don't even remember." Methos gave a dismissive sniff and took a sip from his own mug.

"A boat, the Seine, your sword."

"You make it sound like a game of _Clue._ "

"Well," MacLeod said, setting his mug down, "if the shoe fits. So, Colonel Mustard, that leaves us with _who_ and _why_."

"I'd think _why_ would be self-evident to such a kingpin of journalism. And I've always seen myself as the Professor Plum sort."

"Uh-huh. You were trying to avoid someone."

Methos tipped his mug in MacLeod's direction. "Call the Pulitzer committee, we have a winner."

"Rather drastic move, isn't it? Jumping into the river. So I take it you _really_ wanted to avoid someone."

"Maybe I just wanted the pleasure of your shower. Did you ever think of that?" Methos sprawled back in his chair, legs spread. He rested the mug in the space between his thighs and batted his eyelashes.

"Nice try, Miss Scarlet." If it hadn't been for the thing with the lashes, MacLeod might have let himself get distracted. Methos was very good at distraction, when he wanted to be. Especially when he was giving MacLeod looks like that. "Only one question left. I've got plans later, so why don't you save us both the trouble and spill who you were so eager to avoid that a dip in the Seine seemed like a good idea."

"Plans?" Methos perked up. Color had finally found his face again, and his short hair was nearly dry. "What kind of plans?"

"Plans that don't involve you."

"Ooo, my favorite kind of plans." Methos sat forward, eyes narrowed. "So who is it?"

"That's what I'm supposed to be asking you. Who were you avoiding?"

"I asked first. Who are you going to meet? And why can't I tag along?"

"Tag along?" Methos in a mood was whiplash-inducing on the best of days, but he'd flipped from seducer to eager younger brother in an indecent amount of time, leaving MacLeod scrambling to catch up. "Why would you want to tag along?"

"What else have I got to do today? Why not? They don't even have to know I'm there. Like that time with Amanda."

"It's not what you think."

"Just what do you think I think?"

"I think your mind is in the gutter, where you left your sword."

"We already established that my sword is in the river. Keep up, MacLeod."

"Right. So, should I be expecting a headhunter at my door any second now?"

"Why?" Methos asked, all innocence, "Have you invited one over for tea? I thought you had plans."

"I do, so let's get this over with, shall we? Who were you running from?"

"Who said anything about running?"

"Methos."

"How about this. You tell me who your precious plans are with first. Quid pro quo."

"Okay, Hannibal Lector. I'll bite." Clearly, he was never going to get anywhere until Methos' curiosity was sated.

"Thought we were going with the _Clue_ theme, here, MacLeod. Keep it straight."

"Fine, pedant. I'm afraid _my_ who isn't going to be nearly as interesting as _your_ who. So don't blame me when you're disappointed."

"Now look who's auditioning for the community theatre version of 'Who's on First,'" Methos muttered.

MacLeod ignored him. "Since you're so determined to know, I'm meeting a professor of Scottish history," he said.

All at once, Methos' expression went bland. "Lemme guess. A specialist on the _Garde Écossaise_. Guest curator at the Louvre."

MacLeod cocked his head, surprised. "They're planning an exhibition on the Scottish Archers, yes. How did you know?"

"Word gets around," Methos said. He set his mug on the table and stood up. "Well, thanks for the hot water and hot liquor, but it's getting late, and like you said, you have plans."

Right. MacLeod stayed where he was, on the couch. "Methos. Aren't you forgetting something?"

If Methos' body language had been easy going before, now it was bordering on the desperate. He swung both arms, eyes darting to the door, to the portholes, to freedom. "Don't worry about it, Mac. I doubt I'll run into trouble before I can catch a cab back to my flat, and I'll hire someone to fish my sword out of the river tomorrow."

MacLeod sat back, caught between a smirk and something more concerned. "I was referring to our agreement. Quid pro quo?"

"Eh." Methos waved it off. "You know how it is. Felt an immortal, wasn't in the mood for a smackdown. Too cold."

"So you're telling me you don't even know who it was."

"Yep."

"Uh-huh. Thought you wanted to tag along."

"Tag along for what? You can dump my coat. I think it's beyond the powers of dry cleaning at this point."

It was so obvious and ridiculous that it took MacLeod too long to catch on. When he did, he slapped his thigh and let out a bark of laughter.

"What?" Methos snapped. "It was a nice coat and now I'm gonna have to buy a new one. Don't see what's funny about that."

"You really are a piece of work," MacLeod grinned. "I can't believe you."

"Believe it. I liked that coat." Methos started for the door.

"How do you know Professor Douglas?"

Methos slowed to a stop and turned at the name, brows raised. "Who?"

"You know very well who. The man you were trying to avoid when you took a dunk in the Seine. I can't believe you lost your sword while dodging a mortal."

Methos was caught, and knew it. The feigned innocence slid into something more careful. "How do you know he's mortal?"

"Because Joe referred me to him, you loon. So how do you know him?"

"Some reporter you are," Methos grumbled. "If you checked with Joe, you should be able to figure it out."

And that could only mean one thing. "I take it he's a Watcher?"

"What do you think?"

"I think Joe plays his cards too close to his chest these days." And MacLeod was going to have a little talk with him about that, soon. "So what drove you to such drastic avoidance techniques?"

"His being a Watcher isn't enough?" Methos plopped down on the steps that led down from the front door, every bit the sullen teenager.

"Seems to me there's better ways to dodge a Watcher. The city is crawling with them, and you of all people should know their haunts."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't paying attention," Methos said. "I was walking along the Quai Saint-Michel, minding my own business, and there he was."

"Did you lose the book you were reading in the Seine, too?"

Methos didn't bother to ask how MacLeod had figured that part out. "Yeah. Lucky for him it was just a paperback."

MacLeod shook his head. "It's a mystery to me how you've lived this long. So do I have to guess why you were so keen to avoid the mysterious Dr. Douglas? Did you know him under another identity? Or just piss him off when you were still a Watcher."

Methos screwed up his face into a rather comical moue of disgust. "MacLeod, you lack imagination. So does the great Douglas, so you two should get along swimmingly."

He had Methos, now. From the tone of his voice, he was ready to break. Just needed a little push. "So? What's the big secret? Why such a dramatic escape?"

"He's an insufferable _bore_ is what! The man makes drying paint seem like a Michael Bay flick. He takes a subject and wrings every bit of life out of it until even if you were _there_ you wonder why the people at the time didn't just lay down and die out of sheer lack of anything better to do. Even worse, he's _sloppy_. If you're going to just make shit up to pad your books because you can't be bothered with the research, wouldn't you come up with something _exciting_? But this guy, he--"

"Let me get this straight," MacLeod interrupted.

"I wasn't quite done," Methos protested.

"I think I heard enough," MacLeod said. "Enough to know you _jumped into the river_ and _lost your sword_ in order to avoid a guy because you think he's _boring_. Or have I missed something?"

Methos pursed his lips. "When you put it like that--"

"So factually, there's nothing you'd dispute about my characterization of your motivation?"

"You're not listening," Methos said. "He's _painfully_ boring. Excruciatingly dull. If he'd caught sight of me, it would have been worse than a little smelly water. I would have been forced to take my own head just to escape the inanity."

"Joe said he's very knowledgeable. The Louvre seems to think he's worth hiring. No one can be as bad as you're making this guy out to be."

"Did you do anything lately to piss Joe off?" Methos asked, "Because five minutes with _Professeur_ Douglas and I guarantee you'll be feeling the weight of any transgressions."

"I can't believe I was actually worried for your safety. Methos--"

"Look, MacLeod, as a friend, take my advice. Don't do it. Cancel your appointment, or I might be forced to stage a rescue operation, and you know how much I hate that kind of thing."

"He can't be as bad as you're making him out to be."

"You're sure, are you? Well, don't expect me to call with some made-up emergency in order to get you off the hook, then."

"I wasn't going to ask--"

"Believe me, you'll be sorry you haven't."

MacLeod glanced at his watch and frowned. "Damn, I'm going to be late as it is. Lock up when you leave, alright?" He grabbed his coat and sword and stepped over Methos where he was still sitting on the stairs.

Methos craned his neck around to follow his progress to the door. "For once, take the advice of your elders. Please."

MacLeod paused with the doorknob in his hand. "When did you get this melodramatic? I'm only having coffee with the guy."

Methos shrugged and turned his back on MacLeod.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said.

 

As the good professor started in on his fifty-first straight minute expounding on the origin of the first Latin motto of the _Garde Écossaise_ , leaving not a pause of breath for any kind of interjection or change of subject or correction of his atrocious Latin grammar, MacLeod slid a hand under his coat and fingered the hilt of his sword. 

Killing a mortal was wrong.

Killing a mortal who was doing nothing more than droning on endlessly was wrong.

Killing a mortal in a crowded outdoor cafe was not only wrong, but bound to draw attention.

And MacLeod wasn't quite ready to lop off his own head.

Yet.

 

"Escaped with your sanity intact, did you?"

The voice met MacLeod at the door when he pushed it open, sword in hand just in case Methos had been making the whole thing up and there was some kind of headhunter on the loose after all. He slipped inside, locked the door after him, and gave a little sigh of relief to be back at the barge, even if his uninvited guest hadn't taken the hint and was still...

"Hey!" MacLeod barked.

...cleaning mud from his ruined boots over MacLeod's teak coffee table with one of MacLeod's good kitchen knives.

"So? It's been three hours. How many cups of coffee did you drink?"

Too many. So many he was actually feeling the caffeine.

"Go ahead," MacLeod said, draping his coat over the back of the couch and sinking into the chair Methos had occupied when he'd left. Methos dropped his boots onto the table with a thunk and studied him with a badly disguised smirk. "Get it off your chest. I know you want to."

"So you did do something to piss off Joe."

MacLeod was expecting the inevitable _I told you so_ , but he supposed that was the same thing. "Apparently. Hell if I remember what."

Methos nodded sagely. "Whatever it was, you've paid your dues. How is the good professor?"

"Prolix. Verbose. Palaverous. Loquacious."

"Mmm. Quite. But you managed to avoid the Seine, so you're doing better than I."

MacLeod shuddered. "He wanted to continue the discussion over dinner."

Methos rubbed his dirt-smeared hands together. "Dinner! What a splendid idea. So what are you cooking?" Whatever look came over MacLeod's face at that must have expressed the full horror of the past three hours, because Methos grinned. "I kid, MacLeod. Takeout should be here any minute."

"How did you..."

"Called Joe. He said you were on your way back. He took this shift watching you himself, you know. Guess he wanted to make sure you kept your appointment."

Yes, he and Joe were going to have a little talk. Soon. But not before dinner. His stomach was growling. Or maybe churning, from all the bitter French coffee. It was hard to tell.

"You know," Methos drawled, relaxing back into the couch, eyes heavy lidded. "I don't think I got all the mud out of my ears. I could really use another shower. And you're looking a little grimy yourself."

If they even got to dinner, that was.


End file.
